


Dissolve

by orphan_account



Category: The Scarlet Letter - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, my friends trapped me into writing this so i did it hardcore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dimmesdale began to feel defined by his aches.
Relationships: Chillingworth/Dimmesdale
Kudos: 11





	Dissolve

**Author's Note:**

> may or may not have some personal inspiration thrown into this
> 
> shoutout to my friends who trapped me into writing this!!! i hate you guys. suffer.

Dimmesdale woke up feeling incredibly weak.

It washed over him like a wave heavier than God. When he sleeps - rather fitfully - it's easy to escape. A coughing fit ripped through him; he wondered if it was loud enough to wake Chillingworth, who could poke and prod at him in his ~~sadistic~~ unusual way in another attempt to discern his mystery illness.

And it did - either that, or Chillingworth was awake beforehand. He strides into the room rather slowly, seeming to calculate every step he takes. When he finally reaches him, spread out on the furniture, face contorting slightly out of both pain and frustration, he doesn't say anything at first, just reaches down to place his hand squarely on Dimmesdale's chest, making him hiss in pain. His chest felt compressed, squeezed, and Chillingworth's touch only amplified the feeling until he felt completely robbed of breath. It was a unique ache.

Dimmesdale had begun to feel defined by his aches.

There was, of course, the obvious physical pains he went through. The scarring on his chest, the coughs, and the weakness that often kept him confined to a bed, away from human touch and contact except for Chillingworth. It rendered him miserable, withering plant. 

But there was a unique ache, lying beneath, transcending his physical heart into the more  _ romantic  _ heart. It was the ache of a man not only tormented not by a conundrum but also a specter of the past, ever-following him and searing into his very being. He was a sinner. This he knew well, from the moment he seduced Hester, but the fact that a  _ child  _ was born only sealed his fate; he felt as if the pain would never leave him, as if the physical illness was  _ caused  _ by the sinning, a kind of decay that slowly consumes. It felt as if it was fit to be what he would be remembered for; on his headstone, they could bear a simple inscription: Forever Rotting.

But, of course, there was the conundrum that had a haunting quality to it, too. It was from Chillingworth's ephemeral touch; the ever-elusive air he walked with; his voice, low and distant. It was, really, the end stage of everything. The nearly constant contact with Chillingworth had made him attached, endeared in a way, and it brought him great agony. Not just the need - the sinful, wretched need - but the questions it posed.

It was simple, yet caused a schism within himself. To profess to Chillingworth the depth of his temptation would be putting himself in a position of vulnerability and shame, but also -  _ hope.  _ Dimmesdale had noticed Chillingworth seemed to take an acute, strange pleasure in the torment, enjoying his gasps and groans of pain. Dimmesdale had gotten the idea that maybe this was a game, and they were both willing players. But this, of course, raises the question:  _ Why  _ would they be playing? Dimmesdale's motives, quite simply, ran deeply, inspired by a truthful  _ need,  _ not desire but a  _ need,  _ bred by the pain and touch. Chillingworth was much harder to read. Was he playing because he had desires, maybe even a  _ need  _ too? Was he just getting a sick enjoyment of playing the game? Or - worst of all - was Dimmesdale just desperately looking in the skies, trying to make connections, deluding himself that he wasn't alone?

All delusions have an element of egocentrism, he supposed. The self trying to save the self. And with any delusion comes another, inevitable question: is it a delusion that should be broken?

The problem was simple. It was yet another question - Dimmesdale had a lot of them these days. If he were to tell Chillingworth about his more  _ romantic _ ache, what would truly happen? Would he admit that he, too ached, or would he coldly disregard it? Would he mock Dimmesdale, as he always seemed to do in his cruel, distant way? Would it all be one big  _ waste?  _ And there was, of course, the bigger question as well:

If the words came out of his mouth, would he be free, or more enslaved to the ache than ever?

The answer to that question does not exist.

Chillingworth's hand leaves his chest, letting him breathe again. He stares dimly outside, looking towards the dirty window, trying to remember the smell of sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to vaporwave while i wrote this


End file.
